


An Unorthodox Partnership

by Chaosconetic



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arguing, Friendship, Grudging Respect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 11:32:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3445571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaosconetic/pseuds/Chaosconetic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arya and The Hound have a little debate; I imagine it taking place after the altercation at the inn back in 4x01: Warning, might contain an overuse of the word -Chicken-</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Unorthodox Partnership

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because the adventures and conversations Arya and The Hound share are my favorite part of season 4; they’ve grown to depend on eachother and had developed a rather unorthodox friendship that neither will ever admit exists. So I wrote this little scene that takes place after their scuffle with the soldiers at the inn.

Both were in high spirits since the debacle, or slaughter at the inn, well about as spirited as the duo could possibly be anyway, yet they’d come out the better all the same, Arya got her sword and Hound got his chicken, he shared it equally between them as always, and best of all, little girl got her pony. Not exactly a picture of happily ever after, but all’s well that ends well was their outlook, even if it didn’t end so well for Poliva, his men, or the Inn Keeper.

Right after the fight, during the chicken cooking, Arya couldn’t resist telling the Hound “Next time you’re going to start something like that, tell me first.” She’d needled, echoing the Hound’s own warning to her after attacking the four Fray men.

“Oh HA-fucking-HA;” The Hound deadpanned “Weren’t you listening when I said, Fuck The King? That was me telling you that bodies were about to start hitting the floor.”

Arya snickered behind her hand “Yeah, I heard you alright, it was my favourite part; I mean did you see the look on Poliva’s face?” Arya grinned then did a fairly accurate impersonation of said face.

“Aye, I saw it,” Something like a chuckle laced his usually harsh tone with amusement “I also saw his look when you stuck that toothpick through his noisy throat; wasn’t that just the sweetest thing?” He asked as they stepped over the corpse in question and stepped outside; the cold little smile Arya wore was answer enough and he nodded slightly in approval. 

Later, after roughly a half day’s ride from the inn, a safe enough distance from reprisals, they sat eating their bounty around the fire they’d built just off the road and mostly out of sight from any casual observer; they ate in what under different circumstances might’ve been companionable silence.

Arya broke that silence first, stating out of the blue "Naming a sword doesn't make someone a cunt."

"Such language, and from a Lady of House Stark no less." Sandor drawled, multiple layers of sarcasm and condescension thickening his tone.

"Feckless adult influence, I haven't exactly been keeping reputable company of late, in case you haven’t noticed, yourself." She jabbed back, the double-bladed retort just as biting.

"I Could say the same of you Wolf Girl, your just lucky you still have value to me; but that's not to say I don't enjoy this spiteful back and forth banter of ours," He quipped harshly, his words a two way mix of taunting and sincerity "Now what were you asking again; something about cunts and swords?"

Arya pulled a pained face at his phrasing but reiterated "You said people who name their swords are cunts."

"They are." He affirmed flatly.

"I disagree; lots of great warriors named their weapons; lots of famous knights too; and kings."

"Not helping your case girl."

"Well the weapon is a standing symbol of the wielder's life and deeds,” Arya persisted “And there’s lots of legendary swords with names; people don’t remember steel, they remember names, legends, legacies."

Sandor snorted, guffawed then snorted again “I can almost hear the voice of another idiot echoed in your fool words;” Ignoring Arya’s angry expression, he continued “So people don’t remember steel eh? Try telling that to a dead man; you think he gave a shit about legends and legacies not his own as that -glorious instrument- split him open from eyes to balls? Bet he remembers the bite of steel just fine; legacy is a fool’s prize, honour is worthless to the dead and a weapon is a weapon girl, practical, useful, but still just a tool.” 

“That’s a pretty narrow-minded way to look at it.” Arya sniffed scornfully.

“Is it really?” The hound sighed, exasperated “Look at all those fops, dandies and hypocrite noblemen shytes back in Cunt’s Landing, all naming steel, decorating steel with jewels and gemstones, prancing, preening and parading through the glamour and lies of their self-important delusions; half of those vein, conceited twats have never seen battle, never personally killed a man and watched as the light goes out of his eyes; all so uppity on their social ladders they think that they can never bleed or that their shit don’t stink the way everyone else bleeds and shits stinky shit, not until they’re the ones left lying in a pool of their own blood to soil their breaches dying amidst all their worthless wealth that couldn’t save them from a lump of sharp cold steel opening their throat, and only then when it’s too late do the stupid fuckers realize what really matters in life and have one last –Why Me?!- bitch to their useless fucking gods before they croak. I ask you girl, is there a better definition of a cunt that I’m not aware of?” The raw, flinty, contempt in The Hounds voice spoke more than his words could ever convey

“I’ll let you know if I think of one.” Arya replied snidely, unwilling to admit aloud her unspoken agreement with select parts of his rant.

“Oh please do.” The Hound drawled, rolling his eyes.

"But still,” Arya pressed “You’re pretty infamous, bet if you named that huge sword of yours, people would remember your life through it; it’ll probably be your legacy after your dead."

"Pretty piss poor legacy,” He grumbled, scowling “To end up hanging off some fat, bloated, greedy rich fuck’s trophy-room wall, my life story bastardized and embellished a thousand times in the retelling. Is that what you'd want for yourself and your little Neeeeedle?" He sneered the name through gritted teeth.

Arya pulled a face “Wrong, it’s not like that at all!” She argued.

“Oh Isn’t it?” He drawled condescendingly “Alright then, I’ll try putting this another way;” He huffed, mildly annoyed at this usually sharp, clever girls thickheadedness “Did you name that chicken there that you’re eating before or after you killed it?”

“Neither; why would I name a chicken I’d only end up eating anyway? That’s stupid” Arya snapped indignantly.

“Yet you’d name your sword?” The Hound countered, she didn’t respond, merely glowered “It’s you’re weapon, yes? It serves a purpose, but so did that bird, and I don’t see you getting all sentimental about your damn tasty helping of Lord Anon-Chickington there, or his three other brothers.” He waved the chicken leg he currently gnawed at for emphasis.

Arya fought back an old childish impulse to giggle at The Hound’s mock chicken naming and adopted a stony expression, demanding “That doesn’t make any sense. What do chickens have to do with it?”

“Clearly more than is sinking into that dense piss filled head of yours; and here I thought you were the sharpest pup of your pack.” The Hound had grown to respect this stubborn, strong-willed little brat, yes he had a soft spot for her older sister, but Arya, like himself, is a survivor and having reached an uneasy truce with her, he was mildly amused to learn they were alike in many ways; she did what needed doing when it needed doing in efficient, unfaltering fashion, give or take a few moralizations; Little Bird however could not have braved this life half so well; thus why the Stark Bitch’s obliviousness in this so frustrated him "Why did we kill those Lannister lapdogs back there?"

"To survive." Arya replied testily. 

"Uh-huh, both because they’d have killed us and because they had something we each wanted; now answer me this. Why did we kill the chickens right after killing those King’s Twats?"

"Because we were hungry."

"Aye, that we were, but why did we –need- to kill them?"

Arya sighed "To survive; but I still don't see what this has to do with Needle."

"A better question is why do you carry that sword at all?"

"For revenge," Was her immediate reply, but seeing The Hound’s raised eyebrow she grudgingly admitted "And, to survive;" Arya then screwed up her face in thought "So you’re saying the sword is just a tool, something to be used, like we used the chickens so we wouldn’t starve? And I suppose, looking at it like that, we sort of used those soldiers by killing them."

"If you’re hungry, you eat, right?" The girl nodded "And if someone wants to kill you; you kill them first?” She nodded again “Well, if you’re smart, you take their food as well, it’s the first lesson in life out here; eat as much as you can whenever you can because you never know when you’ll get another chance, that and it’s preferable to take your food from others, less chance of getting poisoned that way.”

“Yeah, I noticed that about you, when we killed those Frey men, their corpses had barely hit the ground before you were raiding their cook fire.”

“It’s not like they needed it anymore.” The Hound grumbled, almost pouting.

“And at the inn just now, first thing you did was go straight for the chickens.” She paused, then reluctantly admitted “And so did I.”

“Fools should’ve just given us the chickens;” He muttered “But then I suppose you’d of started that fight if I hadn’t, get your little Needle back and all.” The darkly smug look on Arya’s face confirmed his prediction “See girl, I understand sentimentality, it just pisses me off when people get stupid about it; because if a weapon is just a tool, then explain to me how a shaped chunk of metal is any different to this greater than the gods delicious fucking bounty." He punctuated by biting off a chunk of said bounty and chewing noisily.

"Well; aren't you from House Clegane? There's family honour and heritage and..."

"Yes-yes,” He interrupted through a mouthful, dismissively waving the chicken leg he held “That's all nice and noble, but don't you think actual living, breathing, red-blooded family descendants would fulfil that role better than some ornament?" He chided "My family needed no fucking heirloom to pass down.”

“What about that dog’s head helmet you were always wearing? I’m sure it has some meaning to you or you wouldn’t bother with it.”

“Aye girl, it’s true that it’s become part of my identity, symbolized my place as that little snot’s dog, and I suppose it does suit me, but I’m not who I am today because of some helmet and a big bloody sword, both are replaceable and I’d shed no tears at the loss of either;” He exhaled, slumped a little “A weapon, a tool, a name, power of any sort only achieves definition in how it is wielded, Wolf Girl; my brother for instance is a shining example of the Clegane family’s -honour-" He spat the word venomously "Who do you think people will remember; The Mountain Who Rides; or just his inanimate instrument of death?" Sandor let out a harsh raspy bark of laughter that sounded just a little self-mocking to Arya.

“You’re not very good at explaining things, are you?” Arya jabbed.

“Why should I be; I’m a fighter, not a bloody philosopher.”

"There’s a difference?” The Hound gave her an odd look, but Arya just waved a dismissive hand “Nevermind. So what's your point, if there is one?" She griped impatiently 

The Hound rolled his eyes, mentally cursing the fucking idiot who raised this snotty brat on fairytales "The point is this. What use is a name when nobody cares to remember the true person it belong to? What use is a legacy if everybody recalls only the larger than life legend they painted you to be instead of the person you really were. Will you defend that legacy against bastardizing bastards from your grave? Well, will you?!" He growled, making her jump.

“How long have you had your sword?” She challenged, unwilling to concede her position on the matter.

“Most of my adult life; first man who pries it from my cold dead hands can keep it; see this” He tapped his swords hilt “This,” Tapped his armour “And this,” Tapped his head “Are all anyone needs in life; this sword and your needle got us this chicken, got us this wine and water, the extra blankets, and most notably, the very fucking pony you were bitching about not having just this morning.”

"Okay, so you’re saying that chickens and swords are just means to certain ends, that we eat to fill our bellies and we kill to survive and take what would’ve filled the bellies of those we killed; screw sentimentality, screw scruples and honour, survival is everything; do you really think life is that empty?"

“Life is life girl, we’re either alive, or we’re dead, and oft times our weapons and tools can make all the difference to what side of that divide we stand in this miserable world.” In that moment, The Hound looked more tired than Arya had ever seen him, and she didn’t think it was because he needed sleep; she was so busy studying him that she flinched when he asked "Which do you think's greater girl; the blade, or the man, or woman, holding it?"

"They’re both greatest as a united whole,” Was her instant answer, just as Syrio had taught her “It should be an extension of your arm, part of your..."

"Aye, it extends your reach," He interrupted "Expands your ways and means, but yours is still the only mind girl; like they say, necessity is the master of invention, but,” He raised a finger “It’s also said a man is just a man, but put a sword in his hand and, provided he’s strong and smart enough, he can topple kingdoms and bring whole continents to ruin; you see girl, any tool is an instrument of your intent, you guide it, whether to fight, avenge, conquer, kill, survive, to feed yourself, to slay an enemy..

"Or murder little boys." Arya put in helpfully.

Sandor shook his head and sighed in resignation, done trying to convince her, besides he was fairly sure she’d gotten his point despite her stubbornness in seeing things the same way as a man she despises “Still on about that damn butcher’s boy?” He scoffed.

Arya hissed at him “His name was Myc…!”

“Doesn’t matter, believe me, dwelling on it won’t help;” He went to touch his burned face, caught himself and huffed out an irritated sigh “It’s done girl; you want revenge, train, get older, get stronger, get smarter, then come find me, and, if I’m still around, we’ll settle it then” He stated bluntly, coldly, remorselessly, then, with a mocking toothy grin, he sneered “Or are you just fishing for an apology?”

“No, that’d just demean us both.” Arya stated coldly, pouted then savagely gnawed at her last bit of chicken and, partly because she wanted to change the subject and partly because her teeth found an exceptionally tasty, tender bit of chook, she moaned in delight and mumbled “Hmm; your right though, this is fucking good chicken.” Through a mouthful.

“Well, how about that;” The Hound mock-gasped while also chewing away “The Wolf Bitch speaks some worldly wisdom at last.” He chuckled dryly.

Arya blinked, perplexed “What?...About not apology fishing you mean?”

“That too,” Sandor replied, glancing back with something like mirth and shot her a toothy death’s head grin, revealing strips of chicken meat lodged between his teeth, she returned the ferrel smirk, her own teeth no prettier. 

Their expressions weren’t friendly by any means, but more of grudging respect and mutual understanding the neither would ever admit to in much the same way that Arya would never admit that, after Sandor had saved her at the Red Wedding, she’d forgiven him for killing her friend after finally realizing he’d been ordered to do it and any refusal on his part would’ve spelled his execution and still seen her friend murdered, just by some other royal ass kisser, like Trant. So yes The Hound was off her list, though she still recited his name every night just to piss him off, because while she’d forgiven him, she would never forget, and that refusal to forget, of course, only complicated their strange partnership. 

The Hound treated her like an equal where all other adults looked down on her as a silly, ignorant child. He never sugar coated or embellished the world’s harsh realities and always gave the facts to her straight. He allowed her some independence when it’d be smarter not to trust her so much. He always split food equally between them despite needing to eat way more than she did. He never treated her like a child, he always gave serious consideration to her advice about traveling and whatnot, okay he didn’t always heed it, but he listened. Sometimes, The Hound even acted like her protector, because odd and twisted as it may sound, with him she actually felt safe from the world’s many dangers, but at the same time she also felt like an adult, with him her opinion and input had worth, she didn’t even feel like a prisoner anymore; more like a reluctant traveling companion while The Hound himself, to some extent had become her new mentor, she’d already learned lots from him and hoped to learn lots more before they parted ways, whenever that would be. 

Yes indeed, all of these insane, nonsensical factors were what made their dynamic so insufferably complicated, complexity that would only grow if Arya ever learned The Hound held similar sentiments toward her as well, that in a strange way, this big, brutal, world weary warrior, this lonely, secretly broken man had grown to need and depend on her as much as she did on him. Such an odd pair they were, both knew it, and neither gave a shit, they were surviving the only way they could, and that is all, that mattered. 

Arya glanced up, The Hound had finished his rationed helping, but she was already full and so extended her untouched chicken leg toward him as a kind of, peace offering “Another helping of Lord Anon-Chickington?” She smiled cheekily.

“Oh shut up.” The Hound huffed, Arya giggled, he rolled his eyes but took her offering with a near inaudible grunt of thanks and, growling very much like a dog, wolfed it down while Arya tried no to laugh at the bits that got tangled in his beard.

**Author's Note:**

> It’s my first time writing these two and I’m certain I got a bunch of stuff wrong, mostly character-wise, The Hound certainly doesn’t philosophise like that so it didn’t come out to well, but I tried it anyway. I might write more scenes for them that take place between later episodes if I get the time and inspiration. Not likely though, so for now, this fic is marked –complete-


End file.
